Going

In the morning
there are thoughts
about this and that.

I shuffle to the room
that holds the cold
commode.

In the mirror
there is an image
reflecting
back at me.

Is it true
that it is me
or something
I am to be?

It hasn't been that long
since last I saw
my own
grandpa.

Yet there he stands
like an old grey ghost
waiting for
the host.

And when he comes
there won't be crying.
Just joy
in the going.